DISCLAIMER: Castle, and all things related (i.e. characters and settings) are the property of ABC. I'm not making any money off of this story (more's the pity).

A/N: I love this show, and have found so many amazing stories on this site. This is my first attempt at a fanfiction story. I normally write original novels for a living, so this has been a very relaxing exercise for me. I'd love feedback, as I have no other way of learning if what I write is any good.

Intervention

Martha Rodgers eyed her son as he restlessly paced in front of her. He was playing with his smart phone (what else?), rambling something about meeting up with Lulu, or Bridget, or Honey, or whoever the newest flavor of the week was. After his twenty-seventh return trip across the living room floor, she determined it was time for an intervention.

Biting her lip for a moment, she took the time to organize her plan of attack. Richard may plot out murders for a living, she told herself as an idea took root, but I've performed in some of the trickiest, most convoluted plots to reach the stage. Mousetrap, anyone? I may still have one more Tony-winning performance in me.

"Oh! Really, Richard! This behavior has to stop," she informed him, adding a dramatic eye roll and a theatrical wave of the hand as she rose to her feet from the couch.

Richard Castle ran his right hand through his slightly tousled brown hair and grunted. "Mother, I told you, I'm fine. I'm handling this my way. I appreciate your concern for my well-being but—"

She snorted, successfully cutting off the rest of his defense. "Richard, you still don't get it, do you? I love you dearly, and I think you are a wonderful man. But right now my concern isn't for you."

His blue eyes flared in sudden suspicion. "Mother, don't."

She ignored his warning. "I have to get this out, darling. This—this—is for your own good. You and I both know how you feel about Detective Beckett." Her voice was smooth and non-confrontational. "It hurts you to think she doesn't respect you enough to tell you personally that she remembers what you said."

"Mother—"

Martha silenced him with nothing more than a look. He recognized it as the "Lady Macbeth" murderous one.

Clearing her throat, she continued. "You claim to be in love with the woman, am I right?"

He nodded. "I was. I was in love, Mother. But she—let's not talk about it!"

"You have my permission not to say a word, Richard," she said softly, a note of velvet steel creeping into her voice, "But for once in your adult life, you're going to listen to the wisdom of a woman who has been there, done that, bought the t-shirt, and done the infomercial."

He couldn't help it; he cracked a smile in appreciation. His mother, for all of her success in the theatre and show business in general, had indeed done an infomercial.

Martha continued seamlessly. "But I'm not so sure love is what you really felt for her."

Castle drew himself up to his full height, easily dwarfing her as his blue eyes smoldered dangerously. "That's not true, Mother."

She lifted her hand. "I think it is." Push him, she told herself. Make him mad. It's for his own good. "Look at the way you're treating the woman you supposedly love, Richard! You're cold and distant, not supportive and present. You refuse to talk to her about anything personal. You're shutting her out, without even giving her a chance to explain."

"I don't want to get hurt," he said quietly, his eyes still blazing, but with pain now rather than anger. "I can't bear to hear it from Beckett herself. I just can't."

Martha rolled her eyes again. "How old are you? No, wait, don't answer that. Just the thought of it is enough to send me into apoplexy. My reason for asking is that for a man who is in his prime of life, you certainly aren't acting like it."

He stopped pacing and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. It was taking everything he had not to tell his mother to shut up and butt out of his life. Only the fact that he was confident he was on the right course of action where Kate Beckett was concerned kept him cool and level-headed enough to ride out the rest of Hurricane Martha's lecture.

"Go ahead, Mother," he said evenly, "Get it all out of your system. I'll listen."

She searched his face, noted his tensed shoulders and the muscles in his jaw twitching. Nodding more to herself than to him, she indicated the couch and suggested, "Then why don't you have a seat."

Obediently moving to the couch his eyes never left her face. The annoyance and anger was fading, replaced with sardonic amusement and anticipation.

"What you are doing to that woman is unfair. Quite frankly, Richard, your actions these last few weeks have been appalling. That's really saying something considering some of your past antics—never mind, that's not my point. Do you really believe flaunting one one-night-stand after another in front of her is going to convince her you were telling the truth last May? Because I am here to tell you, Richard, it wouldn't impress me." She paused, leaning forward to meet his eyes. "That woman is in a vulnerable state and seeing her partner pull away and act like a total jackass is not helping."

He remained silent, stubbornly refusing to accept that he had done anything wrong. After all, Kate had lied—lied—to him. She deserved to be treated the way she had treated him. Didn't she? His eyes clouded briefly as he considered it. Yes, of course she did. She'd had all those months to tell him the truth, to come clean about it all, but she chose to lie instead. He sighed in muted relief. He was absolved of any and all wrongdoing.

"You're not listening, Richard." Martha drew his attention back to her. "I've heard you complain about Detective Beckett pulling away from you, about how frustrated you are when she shuts you out. So why are you being so hypocritical? Now you're pulling away, giving her the silent treatment. Do you honestly believe that there are two separate standards for the goose and the gander?"

Castle winced as her point hit home. Martha saw it and pressed even harder.

"If memory serves, she isn't the only liar in this partnership."

The loft grew eerily silent as mother and son warily eyed each other.

Then, after a full minute of intense mutual scrutiny, he spoke. "Mother, you know why I can't tell her about her mother's case. They will kill her!"

Her blue eyes, so like her son's, softened. Coming around the table to sit beside him on the couch, Martha placed one of her beautifully manicured hands on his knee and met his eyes.

"Darling," she breathed, her voice laced with sympathy, "I do understand your motives. I even agree with your choice not to tell her. But the truth remains, you're guilty of the same thing. Don't you think your wounded pride and hurt ego has lashed out at her enough? Because this petty punishment you're doling out to her is beneath you."

He drew in his breath sharply. It was the first time in nearly ten years his mother had hinted that he had done something to disappoint her. Shame crashed on his conscience, overwhelming it entirely. He wanted to cry, to snuggle against her, to have her wrap her arms around him and tell him that she loved him anyway. Instead he shifted position, forcing her to drop her hand.

Martha studied him quietly as she tried to gauge her level of success. It was hard to read him, which was never a good sign. Usually her son was as transparent as Cinderella's glass slipper. She sighed unhappily. I didn't want to have to do this, she told herself, but it looks as though I'll have to use my trump card on him.

"Do you know who my favorite author of all time is?" she asked abruptly.

Castle raised his eyes to her face. "What?"

She smiled sweetly and demanded, "Just—indulge me."

Tilting his head to the side as a Castle-trademarked smirk settled on his mouth, he said, "That's easy: me."

She laughed outright. "You may be a famous mystery novelist, Richard, but you are hardly my favorite author."

"Ouch!"

Ignoring him, she gushed, "Perhaps, when you have written something that captures the human spirit so resonantly, when you have written something which demands memorization, when your works have become cannon for college literature courses, I may just upgrade you into my top ten. Until then you need to cool your roll, Boy-o."

He grimaced. "Mother, that's 'slow your roll,'" he corrected automatically. "And really, Boy-o? Have you been watching L.A. Confidential again?"

"You shush," she told him, slapping his knee with her hand. "Now, answer my question seriously."

He smiled affectionately at her, glad for a subject which wasn't related to Kate Beckett in any way. "If you tell me your favorite writer is James Patterson, I'll cut you off without a dime."

She arched the eyebrow over her left eye. "Richard! Focus!"

Drawing up his hands in mock surrender, he said, "Just teasing. You've always been a devotee of William Shakespeare."

Nodding, she agreed. "That's right. And I happen to know that, next to Edgar Allan Poe, you think he's the best, as well."

Castle's eyes flickered across the room before returning to his mother's face. "If I'm being honest, right now I'm on a Mark Twain kick. He's edging out the Bard for me just now. A better sense of humor."

"Yes, well," she sniffed as though she couldn't believe he thought not one, but two American writers were better than Shakespeare. "Did Samuel Clemens ever write Sonnet 116?"

Castle saw where she was headed immediately and jumped to his feet to make his escape. "Mother, that's not fair! You know that's my favorite! And don't even try to tell me that—"

But it was too late. Martha was in her Zen position, her eyes closed, her arms moving dramatically as she gracefully rose from her seat.

"'Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments,'" she began, her voice as smooth as silk and the timbre of it as lush as a melody. "'Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove."

"Mother, please," he begged softly, his blue eyes wide, puppy dog-like in their pleading. "Don't."

She stopped and looked at him seriously. For all of her light, effervescent affect, she was at heart a very wise woman who loved her only son with a strong devotion. She didn't want him hurt any more than he already was. But for him to heal, to really get out of his funk, to be happy again, she had to thrust in the Brutus dagger.

"If what you feel for Detective Beckett is real, genuine love, Richard, it isn't going to go away. You won't be able to sweep your feelings under the table or hide them in the bosom of a trollop. Regardless of how she feels about you, if you love her, it isn't going to change. Love doesn't change just because the person you love doesn't reciprocate. Nor does it waver when strife and challenges come into play. You can't walk away from her at the first hint of trouble."

"This isn't the first hint," he cut in, but quickly fell silent again.

"I don't care if it's the fiftieth! Darling, Katherine Beckett is a real woman, with real issues. She's that perfect paradox that puzzles and excites you. She's more than just a pretty face. She's intelligent and witty, sassy and fiery, flirty and fun, serious and haunted. And I know it isn't my place, but I have to say it. She's the only woman who will make you happy. Oh, Richard," she broke off as her eyes flooded with tears and real, raw emotion choked off her words.

He came to her, gathering her into his arms.

"I love you, Mother," he told her, whispering the words against her ear.

She pulled back just far enough to search his face. "Beckett is worth fighting for, Richard. You don't know how she feels about you. For my money, she adores you. I've suspected it for a while, of course, but I knew for certain that day she rescued us from the bank vault."

His eyes flared with hope. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, when she opened that door and saw you she beamed with a light I've only seen shining from heaven. If you recall, she was so wrapped up with your welfare, I had to remind her to untie the rest of us!"

Oh he remembered. Vividly. His mother's interruption had come at a most inopportune time. As usual.

"My point is there are times Detective Beckett is as easy to read as one of your little books."

He arched his eyebrows at her. "Little books? Mother!"

She just looked at him. Lady Macbeth, back to kill again.

Nodding slowly, he acquiesced. "Okay. I hear you. And for the record, you're right. I am still in love with her. But you have to promise me to let me deal with things my own way. I'm not as convinced as you are about Kate's feelings, one way or the other. And right now, I'm still too emotionally raw to confront her about—well, about anything, really. I honestly don't think I can handle it if she rejects me."

Smiling tremulously, Martha cupped his face in both of her hands. "My wonderful, silly son, for all of your experience with women, and with all of the wisdom you've received from living with your daughter and your mother, you are hopelessly clueless about women."

"Hey!" he protested, "I've been married twice, you know!" He winced then added, "Probably not the best time to bring that up, huh?"

"Probably not," she agreed with a laugh. "Has it really never occurred to you that Beckett is waiting for the perfect moment to tell you how she feels about you? We women—we're strong and independent types. It takes us a while to sift through our emotions, to come to terms with the fact that we might be in love with an imperfect man. Please, Richard, don't assume the worst where she's concerned. That's all I ask." Leaning forward, she kissed him softly on the cheek. "That, and your promise to come to my studio's first performance of The Cherry Orchard next Wednesday."

A distant memory of Kate, sitting on a swing in the middle of a park flashed across his mind. Remembering her explanation about the wall she had erected to protect her heart against any further pain and her determination to bring it down, his eyes clouded with doubt. But when he would have pursued the thought longer, his mother drew him back to her when she flitted out of his arms and out of the room.

Hmm. If I didn't know any better, I'd say I've just seen a genuine Martha Rodgers one-woman-show! he told himself. But despite his attempt to bring levity to the scene which had just unfolded in his living room, he couldn't shake the feeling that somewhere in that over-dramatized performance had been a truth not to be ignored.